


Friday Night Lights

by orphan_account



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brendon Urie/Dallon Weekes - Freeform, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, For the most part, Growing Up, IT'S LONG, M/M, Moving On, Moving Out, Past Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, Underage Drinking, a lot of it isnt, a lot of things go right, and, brendon is a student, dallon has a music store, dallon is a sweetheart, mostly just fluff, relationships are hard, ryan can be a dick, some of it is filthy, some things go wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8047678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dallon is a lot older than Brendon. They grow up on the same street, their families are good friends. Brendon is cute when he has a crush.OR the one where lots of things happen on Friday's.





	Friday Night Lights

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a little weird, but if you've clicked here then you're obviously down for this. Brendon is literally ten years younger than Dallon and it eventually doesn't matter. 
> 
> As always, thanks to mcusekat on tumblr for being a great beta (if I didn't have someone to read it I wouldn't have ever finished).

 

**1988**

  
If Dallon had to choose, this would be the very last thing he’d want to be doing. It is Friday night, the night he should be going out and hanging with his friends at the football game. He should be with his boyfriend, who was the quarterback, for moral support. It is the playoffs after all (and Dallon was only a fourteen-year-old freshman and was dating a senior, which should _totally_ be illegal). But he is doing none of those things. Instead, he’s sitting on the floor, spinning Hot Wheels cars around a mat decorated to look like a cartoon city with a boy only about two weeks into his fourth year of life. But he smiles at the boy – Brendon, his mother’s friend’s son – when he hands Dallon an ambulance. He even makes the appropriate “wee-woo” noises as they spun the toys around the track.  
But then Brendon gets bored with it. He jumps up, slides down the stairs and demands Dallon give him some fruit gummies.  
“Didn’t Mom say you could have those after dinner?” He asks, squinting up at Brendon’s dearly loved snacks. He crosses his arms, stomps a foot and groans.  
“No,” he says, staring at Dallon’s knee. “No, she said I could have them now.”  
“When?” Dallon folds his arms and raises an eyebrow, standing firm by the sliding door to the pantry.  
“Just…” Brendon stammers, “Just- just now.” He points to the box. “Snacks.”  
“Brendon, you know she said dinner first, so why don’t we do what she said?” Dallon shifts the boy’s very short attention to the refrigerator. “See?” Dallon picks out the most kid-friendly thing in there – which happens to be Sesame Street-shaped macaroni and cheese. “This looks great, doesn’t it?”  
Brendon looks warily back at the blue box, then to Dallon, then the Tupperware container he was holding.  
“Okay,” he says, bending down to scoop up his blue stuffed dog – that looked like it had already been through the wringer – he had so affectionately named Blue after it’s pigment. Dallon puts the whole container of macaroni in the microwave and watches to see how Brendon manages to hoist himself into the barstool.  
First, Blue is tossed over the side of the granite countertop, then the chair gets pulled. Finally, Brendon scrambles up the rungs of the chair, before twisting around and settling himself the right way.  
Dallon pulls the container out before it dings, then sets it and a Jungle Book fork down in front of the boy.  
“Do you want-”  
“Juice,” Brendon says. “Blue and I want juice.”  
So Dallon fishes out a Capri Sun from the fridge and slides it to the boy’s waiting hand.  
“Thank you,” he says.  
“You’re welcome.”  
Dallon had given Will the phone number to the Urie’s residence and made him promise that he’d call as soon as the game was over, so he wasn’t surprised when the phone rang. But Brendon’s little mac and cheese covered face popped up from the bowl, eyes wide with surprise.  
“It’s okay, I’ll get it,” Dallon assures him before answering. “Hello?”  
“Dallon!” It’s Will, shouting over celebratory cheers in the locker room. “Dal, we won!”  
“Congratulations,” Dallon says, a smile breaking over his face. “You earned it and I’m so proud of you!” Will laughs.  
“Tomorrow, I’ll pick you up, we’ll go somewhere and celebrate.”  
“Of course,” he says happily, “Okay, listen I am so proud of you but I’m babysitting, remember? So I’ll talk to you soon.”  
“Okay,” Will says and Dallon knows he’s disappointed, but he can’t help it. And Will hangs up.  
“Who was it?” Brendon asks, mouth full of macaroni. “Why do you look sad? Can I help?” He asks very quickly, big brown eyes shining.  
“It was a friend, and I’m not sad,” he says, sitting down next to Brendon, perching just on the edge of the stool. He feels a swell of god knows what when Brendon turns away to bump a little macaroni against Blue’s nose.  
   
Dallon helps Brendon into some pajamas, then into bed. He reads Goodnight Moon three times because Brendon keeps missing parts of it. Then he shuts the door behind him and quietly goes down the stairs.  
Dallon doesn’t notice he’s fallen asleep until he’s jolted awake by the sounds of crying. He stumbles up the stairs, rubbing his eyes, and throws open the door to Brendon’s bedroom.  
“What’s wrong, Brendon?” he asks, scooping up the child.  
“I miss Mommy,” he wails, fisting his tiny hands into Dallon’s shirt. “When will she be back?”  
Dallon’s stomach twists and he nearly starts to cry himself.  
“She’ll be home soon; do you want to stay with me?” he asks. Brendon nods and clings tightly to Dallon’s attire. Dallon takes the stairs one at a time, careful not to drop him or slip, then settles into the leather couch.  
“Sing,” Brendon says, watery eyes staring up at him pleadingly.  
“What?”  
“Mommy always sings to me,” he says. “Dal you can sing, sing to me,” he repeats. And he does, mostly to help the child get to sleep, but also to prove to himself that he wasn’t a bad babysitter.  
   
The door opens and Mrs. Urie turns on the foyer light before toeing off her shoes.  
“Dallon?” She asks before stopping at the entrance to the living room. Dallon looks exhausted, bags under his eyes and a sleeping Brendon clinging to his shirt like a sloth. The television is playing The Aristocats, the volume on low. “Hey,” she whispers, moving to the table to set her things down. “How was he?”  
“Great,” Dallon replies. “He ate dinner, we played with cars, watched a movie, whole nine yards. It was fun.” She smiles, motioning for her husband to see their kid.  
“He never goes to sleep outside of his bedroom, you must have some sort of trick,” he says with a smile. “Anyways, we can take over from here.” So Dallon shifts Brendon from his chest to Mrs. Urie’s waiting arms. He stretches and smiles, collecting his school bag and walking himself down the street to his home.  
   
  
**1995**  
It shouldn’t have surprised Dallon that Brendon would be involved in the social circles of middle school or that he’d be a part of every club known to man and on two different sports teams and make straight A’s. Brendon headed the astronomy club, was the vice president of the student council, a part of the band program with trumpet, one of the council members of the Community Service Board and worked on the school paper and yearbook: and that was only the beginning. He was on the junior swim team for the city and played soccer. Needless to say, he was very accomplished. He was always going off to meets and traveling around for games and bringing home medals Dallon didn’t even know existed. Brendon was never home, that was true. His mother was always supportive and helpful, which Dallon was in awe of to begin with. If Brendon were his responsibility, he’d have bought him a skateboard and told him to work it out.  
Dallon was home, working diligently on some college homework by the light of his lamp. It was his sophomore year and he was really trying to do well. He was accepted into one of the best business and management programs in the state (at UNR) and was trying his best to be involved in the jazz band he joined on a whim. But he was trying and that’s what counts.  
Someone knocks on his door.  
“Hey Dallon, honey are you free tonight?” He swivels around in his rolling chair to face his mother. She’s standing half inside the door, brown curls hanging over a shoulder as she pressed the receiver to a phone into her chest.  
“Yeah, I don’t have anything to do really, why?”  
“Mrs. Urie is driving up to see her dad, he’s been a little sick and Brendon has a soccer match tonight. Could you pick him up and help him with his homework or whatever until they get back?” She asks.  
Dallon nods.  
“Yeah, I can do that.”  
   
The soccer game was a nail biter, Brendon thought that they were surely going to lose at one point or another, but they pulled it out. They qualified for the state competitions and that was a major accomplishment. He heads into the locker room, the other boys horsing around with him.  
“Brendon if you hadn’t been here tonight, we would’ve lost for sure,” Bill says, hooking an arm around his neck. Paul punches his arm.  
“Yeah, dude, you scored that last time and I almost died,” and Brendon laughs.  
“Yeah I almost missed it ‘cause your fat ass got in the way,” and Paul tips his head back and laughs, pressing his hands together in prayer.  
“Dear God, we thank you for the win and for Brendon Urie’s flawless aim. Amen.” The ‘prayer’ is followed by a chorus of ‘amen hallelujah’ by the other players.  
Brendon grabs his bag and a water, not bothering with changing just yet. He pushes his way through the locker room to the exit door. He smells like sweat and grass, but Mom’s picking him up so it doesn’t really matter, right?  
Wrong. Oh god, so _so_ wrong. Brendon nearly drops his bag when he sees who’s waiting for him by the back of the locker room. It’s Dallon Weekes, who he hasn’t seen since Sunday. Dallon has his Ray Bans on and has both hands shoved in the pockets of his leather (actual leather) jacket. A couple of cheerleaders give him once-overs but Dallon doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he doesn’t look up from his Converse.  
“Dallon?” Brendon asks. “What’s up? Where’s Mom?”  
Dallon jerks his head up when Brendon calls for him and he nods to his car.  
“She’s visiting your grandfather, he’s a little sick right now. So I’m going to stay with you for the weekend, is that okay?”  
Brendon nods. Dallon opens the trunk and lets Brendon toss his smelly equipment in.  
The drive is quiet; the only sound is the radio playing the Verve’s newest album. Brendon squirms, fidgeting with his shorts hem. Dallon drums his fingers against the wheel, humming along softly.  
“You win the game?” He asks suddenly.  
“Yeah, but it was close.”  
More silence.  
“Any cheerleaders you like?”  
Brendon laughs and shakes his head. “No, not yet.”  
Even more silence. And Dallon wonders how you could be in a car with one of the most outgoing people on the planet and it be dead silent.  
Dallon pulls up by the house, parking in the cul-de-sac and helping Brendon with his things. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and follows the boy into the home. The house is dark and also silent and Dallon knows he’s going to lose his mind. He pulls out his homework and starts to take notes on the chapter detailing the Wall Street Crash.  
He’s about halfway through when Brendon comes into the kitchen, changed into some pajamas and holding a book about pre-algebra and a notebook.  
“Hey, could you help me with this?” He asks. Dallon pushes his books to the side and pats the counter space.  
“Of course, what is it on?”  
   
So they spend the night simplifying fractions and figuring percentages until Brendon’s head feels like it was going to fall out of his butt.  
   
1999  
Brendon hits high school and his involvement doesn’t curb. He just bounces from one circle of friends to the next. And Brendon gets attractive. He grows about a foot and loses his adolescent baby face, replaced by a jawline to die for. His lips fill out; his glasses are replaced with contacts (not that that’s a big difference). His previously awkward and young physique is now longer, lean and the effects of swimming, soccer and baseball (something he added freshman year) are paying off. Yeah, Dallon does feel guilty for it, knowing he’s still just a kid and all, but he has eyes, and is willing to admit that the kid he used to babysit is attractive.  
   
Brendon has the table enraptured by his tale of getting stuck in the woods in his friend’s convertible.  
“…so Paul says ‘let’s just walk,’ but we have the car and all, right? And we’re about to get the engine running, and there’s some rustling in the bushes. My first thought is ‘oh whatever, it’s just a deer or something, and I finally get it cut when a full grown man like- springs, from the trees and Paul screams and nearly runs me over, but I do some sort of mad gymnastics stunt and somehow end up in the backseat-” the front door opens and closes and the table halts, Brendon craning his neck to see who was at the door. It’s just Dallon, he concludes. He hasn’t talked to him in forever. He’s definitely gotten taller, Brendon notes, trying to watch his movements as he hangs up his coat. He rounds the corner, face lighting up with pleasant surprise at the gathering of family and friends.  
“Oh, hey guys,” he says, smiling kindly.  
“Where’s Luca?” Dallon’s mother asks. At the same time that Dallon points over his shoulder to the door, a soft “I’m here” is heard.  
Luca is from Italy; they find out throughout the meal. He’s blonde with blue eyes, which is ‘more common than you’d think’ according to him. Luca touches the back of Dallon’s hand softly, something that makes Brendon’s stomach twist sharply. Dallon did get taller. He also is about a million times hotter than Brendon remembers. His eyes are blue, something Brendon takes notice of randomly.  
“I hear you’ve started a business,” Gary Johnson says over the lip of his wine glass.  
“Yeah, I have,” Dallon sits back in his chair, excitement lighting his eyes. “After graduation I was working at a business that was selling the stuff that goes into computers- chips, processors, things like that,” he clarifies. “And I really just drew up diagrams and pie charts of what consumers were buying and I hated it. Some people are really good at it, and I wasn’t bad at it, I just hated it. So I found a place – it’s huge, actually – just outside Vegas. So I’m starting a music store, like with instruments, vinyls, turntables, CD’s and players, supplies…we’re mostly focusing on percussion and string, which is in high demand, plus keyboards and pianos.” Dallon smiles thoughtfully, the whole idea still making him shiver with joy. “We’re painting it right now, the neon signs are being installed Friday,” he says.  
“And where is the money coming from?” Matilda, Gary’s wife, asks.  
“We partnered with Fueled by Ramen, we sell the records and let them use the studio, they help with the money part, the rest comes from me.” He says proudly. At the mention of Fueled by Ramen, Brendon dropped his fork, mouth hanging open.  
“No way, working with that label is a dream, isn’t it?” He asks, a shock running down his spine when Dallon makes eye contact with him.  
“Yeah, they’re really great people,” he pauses, half smiling with a brow raised. “You want to come see the place? They’ll be there tomorrow.”  
Brendon nearly faints, but he nods.  
“I have baseball until five – oh wait,” he counts on his fingers, biting his lip. “Then soccer,” he mumbles, “then astronomy at ten…” he furrows his eyebrows. “I should be free from six-thirty to nine forty-five.” He says confidently, earning a couple of laughs from the guests.  
“You sure stay busy,” Eunice Oldman says with a smile. “Always good to see an involved kid.” She adds.  
<<>>  
Brendon’s parents stop him before he runs off to soccer. He’d stopped at home for half a sandwich and a Gatorade before bustling back off to practice.  
“Wait, Brendon.” His father shifts to block him from the door. “We need to talk.”  
“About?” Something drops in him and Brendon tries to think of every bad thing he’s done in the past month or so. There was the weed, but I didn’t-  
“Dallon,” he says.  
“Oh,” and the relief in his voice earns him a weary glance from his mother. He shifts the bag on his shoulder, clearing his throat. “Yeah? What about him?”  
“You do know he’s gay,” his father says slowly.  
“Yeah I knew that,” he says, thankful that his voice doesn’t betray him. “But I don’t-”  
“And we know that Dallon is a great kid, he’s done a lot with his life to only be twenty-four. He is respectable and we are grateful for all he’s done for us, but you have to keep in mind that he’s not pure.” His father continues. “Go kill it at soccer, kid,” he says with a pat to his shoulder.  
“I love you, stay safe! Call me when you get there,” his mother says, waving as Brendon hops on his skateboard and hurries to practice.  
   
Brendon can’t focus. He can’t hear the coaches; his head is still swimming from the talk with his dad. Something heavy and immoveable has settled right between his ribs and he can’t focus.  
“Damn it Brendon!” Coach McAllister yells, tossing his clipboard. “What did I say? Formation, keep in formation, boy!” His face is red and sweaty, lips tightly pressed together. Brendon nods, trying his best to do what was being asked of him. Luckily, the rest of practice goes smoothly. He keeps to what the coaches say and even manages to score a goal here and there. But it doesn’t fix what Dad had said. He’s not pure. He’s not pure. He’s not pure.  
The words skid around his skull with every move he makes. Spencer Smith, the goalie, notices something wrong. Spencer’s best friends with Ryan, who Brendon met through the Community Service Board. Spencer shares his math class and plays literally every instrument in the percussion section.  
When Coach pulls out the first string team to do laps while he works with the second string, Spencer jogs along next to him. Spencer is on the track team and is a little faster than Brendon, but he stays at the same pace.  
“What’s your damage?” he asks Brendon.  
“Nothing really, I mean, it’s not important?” And Brendon says it like a question, but Spencer nods anyway.  
“Girl problems?”  
“Nah,” Brendon shakes his head. “Broke up with Chrissy a month ago.”  
“And you’re still single, why?” Spencer asks with a smile. “No, I get it. You’re going solo.”  
“I guess…I don’t know.” Brendon squints and tries to remember the girl Spencer’s been dating since freshman year. “How’s-” he pauses, what was her name? It reminded me of Grease, no not John Travolta but how funny would that be…wait it was- “-Sandy?” he asks, smiling to himself about the John Travolta thing.  
“She’s in Canada for the weekend. Family up there.”  
   
Practice ends and Brendon rushes through a shower and changes hurriedly into some black jeans he’d never admit were labeled ‘skinny’. He throws of a random grey tee shirt, scoop necked, not V so no one would suspect anything, and a red plaid flannel, sleeves rolled three times since it was his father’s shirt.  
He runs his fingers through his hair, biting over his lips several times to draw color and – once satisfied – leaves through the door to the parking lot. Dallon is standing outside the car, leaning against the passenger side door. He has the same Ray Bans and black vans, but his attire is different. He’s wearing a dirty, paint splotched UNR hoodie and tight fit spandex pants. He looks up when he Brendon calls and helps him with his things.  
“How was practice?” Dallon asks, giving him a sly once-over Brendon pretended not to notice.  
Brendon smiled, sighing with relief. The troubles of the day melted and he was left with the feeling of thoroughly worked muscles and cool water from a shower clinging to his scalp.  
“Great,” he lied, but it was easy enough to do. Dallon wasn’t exactly good at telling the truth from lies, that was Brendon’s skill. Brendon turned on a channel known for playing music from the seventies; Ryan had shown it to him in his car at a beach cleanup. He hummed along to the pieces of songs he knew, bouncing both knees.  
Being anxious was something Brendon was familiar with; the twist in his gut when Mom didn’t come home on time, the dropping in intestines when he was doing something he knew was wrong, the trembling in his hands and the cold sweat, even the contracting of his chest until he was sure he was going to die. But performing was different, he relaxed. He was in his element, and meeting the people with Fueled by Ramen wasn’t any different. His nerves were settled, his fingers didn’t so much as twitch as they entered the gigantic building Dallon bought. It was three stories high and square in shape. Inside were crews of people painting the walls dark colors.  
“The people naming paint colors need to relax,” Dallon says. “See the red one?” He points to the wall that a few people are painting large blocks that piece together in a style titled ‘modern’.  
“Yeah,” Brendon squints and nods.  
“It’s just called ‘Red Red Red,’ like, who came up with this? Oh, the orange next to it is called ‘Fire Coral,’ which isn’t as crazy as some other ones I’ve heard. The yellow is ‘Canary Diamond’, yes, like the bird and yes, like the rock.” He smiles. Brendon follows him to the back wall where a team is installing a huge neon sign declaring that this area is only to have “Guitars”. The chosen script a little curved, a little lopsided but it fit. A guitar, made of the same neon tubes, is going up next to it. The two items are sandwiched between two other lines of tubing, running over it. A third joins at the waist of the guitar, running parallel to the above and below lines. Next to it, down a wall, the middle line halts, broken by the word “Drums”. Two crossing drumsticks are already installed, the tubing running around the corner of that wall. The next section is titled “Classical” with a violin/cello duo following it. The neon signage wraps the perimeter of the building, breaking for the glass doors and the staircase leading to the upstairs. The staircase is one of those circling ones, made of steel. There are lights underneath, Brendon can see them. The entirety of the store is sparkling tile, like the kind you’d find in Forever 21 or whatever. It’s black and reminds Brendon of the night sky.  
“So you want to meet them?” Dallon asks.  
“Yes.” Brendon answers. “How’d you manage all this? This is amazing. I’d never leave.”  
“It’s hard to, I’m not going to lie.” Dallon says. “Okay, let’s just,” he places a hand at the small of Brendon’s back, maneuvering them out of the way of two women carrying a sofa. Brendon makes a small noise of surprise, eyes widening at the very brief touch. He’s not pure. And Brendon could just reach out and-  
Dallon moves to the stairs, motioning for Brendon to follow. He does, ignoring the new trembling in his fingers that had nothing to do with the label.  
The upstairs is even cooler than the downstairs, Brendon discovers. The floors are a dark brown wood, beanbags and throw rugs and posters of famous bands cover the room in its entirety. The color scheme is a lot different: browns, yellows and oranges replace the bright neon signs and loud colors. Instead of neon tubing, there are simple light fixtures. Western-style letters with lightbulbs in the metal framing spell out “vinyl”. Across the way the same letters are reflected, except this time, it simply has a C and a D. There is a waist-high bookcase lining the wall. There are pieces of painter’s tape with scrawling handwriting marking how the music is to be arranged. There are a few tables and lamps, turntables still in their packaging are paired off one to a table. Bean bags and soft, comfortable chairs crowd the tables at different heights.  
“It’s setup so that you can pick out a vinyl from certain sections and play them, see how they sound. It was Pete’s idea.” Dallon says it so casually Brendon almost doesn’t notice the name. Brendon’s mouth hangs open once again. He bounds ahead of Dallon, pointing to the nearly-hidden door.  
“Is it-”  
“Yep, you can go on up,” Dallon says, jerking his head up the short staircase.  
Brendon beams, taking them two at a time. The studio, like everything else, is amazing. There’s a mixing machine almost as big as him on this side of a glass window. It was clearly only for recording. Then Brendon is greeted by Pete Wentz.  
“You’re the kid with Dallon, right?” Pete asks. Before he can answer, Dallon materializes beside him, reaching around his shoulder to do a complex handshake with the other man. Dallon’s hand rests at the nape of Brendon’s neck, fingertips brushing his hairline on accident.  
“Welcome to our studio.”  
   
**2000**  
Brendon and Dallon end up riding together to and from work, Brendon working at the shop with guitars. But today, Brendon is quiet. He twiddles his thumbs, chewing on his lip.  
“Dal?” Brendon asks. “How did you know?”  
“Know what?” Dallon asks as he fumbles with his catalog for the store, pen between his teeth.  
“That you…you know,” Brendon blushes, staring down at his hands. “…liked boys.”  
“Oh,” Dallon swipes a tongue over his bottom lip, clicks the pen and writes down a seventy next to the cakes of rosin. “I just did, always have.” He furrows his eyebrows as he tries to figure how many violin strings he’d probably need for the next month. He settles on sixty of each.  
“Dallon,” Brendon says. “Dal, I think…I mean…I-”  
“You don’t have to know yet, not everyone does at the same time.”  
Brendon wants to tell him that he’s had a crush on him since he was literally twelve, but he doesn’t. He nods and waits for Dallon to finish his order.  
   
**2001**  
Dallon is fiddling with mandolin strings when Brendon busts through the front door. He’s pink in the face, bottom lip crushed between his teeth. The blue car Dallon’s come to recognize speeds off and Dallon thinks he knows what’s happened.  
“Hey, what’s-” Brendon simply shakes his head. He crosses behind the checkout counter and rests his forearms on the glass top. Dallon doesn’t ask. Brendon doesn’t mention it.  
   
Dallon drives Brendon home, but before he can get to their side of the neighborhood, Brendon asks him to turn around.  
“Why?”  
“Please, just turn around,” Brendon repeats, closing his eyes.  
Brendon takes him through the back roads behind the high school. Brendon has just graduated a couple of weeks previous. “You can park here,” Brendon mumbles.  
“What’s up,” Dallon asks, cutting the engine.  
“Ryan broke up with me,” he says. “Messy stuff…I mean, he got me in bed with him…I don’t know,” he says, rubbing his eyes under the lenses.  
“Oh man, I’m sorry, Bren.” Dallon pulls a knee up to his chest. “Want to talk about it?”  
“No,” he says. “I want,” he clears his throat. “I want…can I tell you something?” He asks.  
Dallon nods. “Yeah, anything.”  
“Dal, I really just…I like you. A lot. For ever it seems. I know you’re a lot older, but I still…I don’t know. I just. I want… I’m eighteen…and I want to-” he stops, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know why this is so hard. I want to k-” his voice falters again. “I want to kiss you,” he mumbles.  
“Brendon, I don’t think-”  
“Dallon, I don’t care. I don’t care what my parents are going to think, I don’t care. I’m old enough, right?”  
“Bren, look at me.” Brendon looks up from the dash, lip still between his teeth. “If I let you, we can’t exactly be normal, you know?”  
“I know,” he mumbles.  
“Let’s just wait a little, okay?” Dallon asks. “Give it about a month, if you still want to, we’ll talk about it. Wait until you’re not still hurting.”  
   
   
   
Brendon waits exactly a month. His parents are out of town for a trip for their anniversary. Brendon has it all planned out. Perfectly.  
He waits until Dallon’s car has ambled to a stop before looking him in the eyes.  
“It’s been a month,” he says.  
“It has.”  
“Do you want to come in?”  
   
Dallon shuts the door carefully, Brendon shifting from one foot to the other just inside the foyer. Dallon turns slowly, back against the door. Brendon takes three agonizingly slow steps and places a hand on Dallon’s cheek, the other around the back of his neck.  
“Bren, are you sure?” Dallon whispers one more time. He knows it’s not sex or anything, but he still feels like a cradle robber, which is the perfect word for exactly what he’s doing.  
“Yes, I’m sure,” Brendon echoes, stepping up on the balls of his feet to lightly push his lips against Dallon’s. He pulls away, just for a second, before kissing him firmly, confidently. He tips his head a little, pulling Dallon back down to his height. Dallon opens his mouth, just slightly, and Brendon makes a noise in the back of his throat. Dallon gently tugs on his bottom lip, swallowing up the noises Brendon is making, and it feels right. Dallon rests his hands at Brendon’s waist, shifting his clothing enough for his fingertips to press into his skin. And Brendon starts to get impatient, pulling their bodies closer together. Dallon pushes him against the wall, his hand moving to the back of Brendon’s neck. Dallon’s done this before, and he works his knee up between Brendon’s legs. He trails kisses down his neck, sucking against his pulse point just under his jaw. Brendon keens a little, fingers tugging at Dallon’s hair.  
“Dallon,” he whispers. “Dal, oh god,” he sighs. Dallon tilts his head just a bit and the sensation is totally different. Brendon arches into it, a heavy sigh leaving his parted lips. Dallon knows he should feel badly about it, even though it’s only a kiss. Brendon tugs on his hair and he detaches his lips from his neck, pressing another kiss to his lips. Brendon sighs, fingers beginning to fumble with the buttons on Dallon’s shirt.  
“Hey, slow down okay?” Brendon’s knees go weak; Dallon’s voice is low and rough and probably the sexiest thing he has ever heard in his life. Brendon groans, huffing through his nose.  
“But Dal-” Dallon cuts him off, tracing over Brendon’s bottom lip with his tongue. Brendon opens his mouth, their tongues sliding easily together. Brendon rolls his hips against Dallon’s, eliciting a low moan from the back of his throat. Brendon smiles easily into his mouth, fingers tightening unconsciously in his hair.  
“Brendon,” Dallon places a hand at Brendon’s cheek and rubs a thumb over his bottom lip, pausing for a moment to take in the sight of the younger boy. His hair is mussed, sticking out at every angle, his lips are swollen and bitten red, his chest heaving. “We gotta slow down, okay?”  
Brendon nods, dropping his hands from Dallon’s hair to the divot between his neck and shoulder.  
   
>>><<<  
   
Dallon’s eyes skim over the page of the Hobbit, the hardcover copy his mother had left on the table. The headboard isn’t exactly comfortable against the discs of his back, the pillow smashed under his shoulder blades. His long legs are stretched out against the duvet, crossing at the knees. He chews over his bottom lip, his breath hitching as the water in the shower stops. From the bedroom, he can hear Brendon humming to himself as he towels dry.  
Brendon’s parents are gone on a boating trip with a few family friends and since Dallon had moved into an incredibly nice apartment, Brendon immediately jumped on the opportunity to get into Dallon’s bed.  
And Dallon would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t want him to. Just a week previous, the neighborhood got together to have a funeral for the old man that lived at the end of their street. He was mean and cranky most of the time and Dallon wasn’t exactly going to miss him. But during the fellowship time, Dallon was walking by a linen closet and the door opened and he was tugged in by his tie. They started kissing and Brendon got a little handsy and ended up coming in his pants. Dallon had had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep anyone from hearing his cry.  
Brendon stops humming, Dallon notices. He’s been staring at the name ‘Bilbo’ for a few minutes, mind elsewhere. He focuses on the page, however, desperately attempting to ignore the footsteps nearing the bed. Brendon’s shadow dances along the wall, turning out the bathroom light and padding towards Dallon. Brendon’s fingers – lanky isn’t the right word- strong, nimble – curl over the top of the book, pulling it gently out of Dallon’s hands and setting it facedown to keep his place. Brendon throws a leg over Dallon’s, clambering onto the mattress and settling down in Dallon’s lap. Dallon thanks whatever god is listening that Brendon is dressed so it’ll be easier to say no to him. Brendon’s hair is wet, clinging to his forehead and his glasses sit high on his nose.  
“Hi,” Brendon whispers, hands in his lap.  
“Hey.”  
The grey hoodie advertising Brendon as a member of the city’s swim team lays loosely over his body. The hood is folded against his neck, curling at the nape.  
The room is silent, the only sound is their breathing. The lamplight makes the room feel softer, dousing it with a yellow glow. The moonlight filters in through the closed blinds and glints off Brendon’s square glasses.  
“I’m in your bed,” Brendon says, voice low, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.  
“You are,” Dallon says with a nod. Brendon casts a quick glance around the bedroom Dallon hasn’t quite recognized as his own yet.  
“’S nice,” Brendon says, raising his thumb to his lips to chew on the nail. “I like it.”  
“Yeah, me too,” he replies, eyes never leaving Brendon’s face.  
Brendon turns back to the man he’s sitting on, tentatively resting his hands at his shoulders. He’s nervous, which makes him irritated because this is supposed to be good. It’s supposed to be something to make him un-nervous. But his chest is tight, his heart racing against his ribs, his breath shallow. He prays Dallon can’t feel his fingers trembling.  
He bends towards Dallon, close enough to feel Dallon’s breath against his cheek. He licks over his lips, eyes flitting between Dallon’s mouth and his eyes. He shifts up on his knees, pulling back to adjust his angle. He feels a burst of courage flower in his throat and he quickly pitches himself forward to catch Dallon’s mouth in a kiss.  
Brendon knows he’s going to have to coax Dallon into touching him more directly. One of the things Brendon knows about Dallon is that he won’t make the first move. It’s always a matter of consent. So Brendon parts his lips, eyelashes fluttering against Dallon’s cheekbone. He sighs when Dallon finally slides his tongue between his lips.  
His hands run over Dallon’s chest, tipping Dallon’s head back. Their lips move slowly, fluidly moving together. Brendon grinds down slowly, tentatively, testing his limits with Dallon. Normally it – rather, the physical aspects of their relationship – ended here. However, Brendon is surprised when Dallon sighs, just slightly, against Brendon’s cheek. He slides his hands against the warm skin of Brendon’s stomach, digging his fingernails into the place where his ribs end and stomach begins. Brendon make a soft, contented noise that Dallon took as encouragement. He pulls back, tipping his head to press messy, open-mouthed kisses down the younger boy’s neck. Brendon sighs, tilting his head to give Dallon better access. He sucks in a hard breath when Dallon kisses against a particular spot just on the underside of his jaw that always made him hard.  
Brendon moans, tossing his head back. His eyes flutter shut, his hand tightening in Dallon’s hair, the other on his shoulder. Dallon suddenly gets the urge to press his teeth into the tender skin and before he can stamp it down, his canines are digging in and Brendon arches into it, letting out a noise Dallon hadn’t heard him make before.  
“You liked that?” He mumbles into Brendon’s skin working over his slender neck.  
Brendon moans breathlessly, nodding emphatically. Dallon sucks a bruise just at Brendon’s pulse point, earning a breathless ‘please’. Brendon tugs at the front of Dallon’s shirt, trying to work it over his head. Dallon gets the hint, yanking it off with ease. Brendon doesn’t move to remove the hoodie and Dallon doesn’t push it. Instead, Brendon shifts his hips, pulling the plaid boxers off hurriedly.  
Dallon lift his hips and helps Brendon take his off, too. Brendon’s anxious to get going and immediately goes straight for it, moving to straddle Dallon’s hips, but a gentle hand at his waist reminds him that there has to be some prep involved.  
“Oh, shit I forgot,” He reaches around Dallon to take the bottle of lube Dallon’s stashed there for the past two weeks, just in case. He opens the cap and starts to squirt some on his fingers but Dallon takes it from him.  
“It’ll be easier if I do it,” he says.  
“And slower,” Brendon mutters, but lifts his hips anyway.  
Dallon takes a breath, coating three of his fingers thoroughly before slipping a hand between Brendon’s legs. Brendon scrunches his face up at the burn one finger is already causing. But he nods, loosening his hold on Dallon’s shoulder. He tries to relax, concentrating on even breaths and the way Dallon’s fingers twitch against his skin. Dallon works the finger tentatively, listening to the subtle hitches in Brendon’s breathing. He pulls his hand out, then back in – slowly – a second finger sliding in by the first one. Brendon gnaws on his bottom lip, furrowing his brows. It stung. But the stretch was fading quickly, replaced by the need for more. But the fingers inside him weren’t aimlessly wriggling anymore. They were pushing and flexing against the most intimate places Brendon could think of. Dallon’s breathing becomes heavier, more concentrated. He shifts his elbow, pushing his fingers towards him and-  
_“Fuck!”_ Brendon’s mouth falls open, knees weakening. He moans, pushing down to meet Dallon’s fingers.  
“There, huh?” Dallon asks, steadily working over his prostate. Brendon nods hurriedly, moaning breathlessly.  
“D-Dallon-” Brendon sighs, just a little, sliding a hand between their bodies. Dallon slows his movements, surprise jumping in his throat when Brendon guides his pointer finger alongside Dallon’s. His eyebrows furrow, mimicking Dallon’s movements. He rolls his hips down and cries out, screwing his eyes shut. He squeezes Dallon’s shoulder, biting back a groan.  
“I’m- I think-” he moans, electricity shooting up his spine. “-I’m good, Dallon!” His voice hitches, sweat beading on his upper lip. Dallon removes his fingers, Brendon’s also slipping out. He takes a condom from the drawer and rips it open with his teeth before rolling it on smoothly.  
Brendon inches closer to Dallon, shakily sitting up on his knees before slowly inching down onto the head of Dallon’s dick. He pauses, waiting for the pressure between his hips to ease. Dallon’s mouth reattaches to Brendon’s neck, a hand wrapping around his dick. With the new distractions, he quickly takes all of Dallon. He sighs, the familiar feeling of being filled and stretched making his toes curl. Brendon rolls his hips, a soft “ah” falling from his parted lips.  
“God,” Dallon breathes out a laugh, “You’re so-” he shudders as Brendon gains confidence with his movements. “-tight,” he swallows hard, taking Brendon’s hips between his palms, guiding him in the right direction.  
Brendon scrunches up his face, biting his lip.  
“I can’t-” he gasps, leaning forward to press his head between Dallon’s neck and shoulder.  “Dallon-” Brendon can feel his knees shaking, about to give way when Dallon wraps an arm around his waist, holds him snugly to his chest and flips them around. Dallon settles him in the sheets, the new position jarring in the most pleasant of ways. Brendon’s knees fall open, hands immediately gripping Dallon’s neck. Dallon starts out slow, moving his hips in heavy, leisurely thrusts. Brendon pushes back to meet him, pressing his heels to the back of Dallon’s thighs to urge him to go faster. But the pace is torturing, and no amount encouragement from Brendon is going to change it.  
Brendon arches off the bed when Dallon strikes a particularly nice spot inside him.  
“Dallon-” he gasps, eyes slipping shut. He moans again, surrendering finally to all of the sensations rattling through him.  
While Dallon is desperately attempting to keep going slow and gentle, the pressure in his stomach is nearly becoming unbearable. Brendon is so unbelievably tight, adjusting remarkably well, not to mention that Dallon’s resolve is crumbling with every pull of Brendon’s hips and every noise slipping from his mouth.  
Dallon reaches down to help Brendon along, but the younger boy wraps a shaking hand around his wrist, lacing their fingers together.  
The bed’s creaking gets louder as Dallon finally gives in to the rhythm Brendon has not-so-silently been begging for. Brendon’s eyes flutter, rolling back in their sockets. He clings to Dallon as if his life depended on it and to some extent, it arouses Dallon even more. The thought of how much younger and smaller Brendon is rouses some possessive oddity he never pegged on his own.  
Brendon goes silent, mouth tightly closed, eyebrows tightly knit together. He’s sliding against the hoodie he’s still wearing. His stomach is tightening, the mind-numbing fluidity making his head spin. He can feel the haze of his oncoming orgasm, hovering just behind his eyes. Dallon shifts his hips with a soft grunt and Brendon is arching, letting out an almost-scream and comes hard across his stomach.  
He moans softly as he comes down, Dallon finishing a few thrusts later.  
   
Brendon doesn’t realize he’s dozing off until Dallon is wiping him clean with tissues left on the nightstand. He pulls Dallon down closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. His body feels overworked and sore, he can still feel the subcutaneous tremors skittering under his skin.  
   
Dallon watches Brendon fall asleep. Guilt tugs at his brain, twisting his chest. He’s just a kid, he reminds himself. But what he feels is real and runs deeper than he thought possible. Their lives are so inseparable that he can scarcely remember a time without the boy or his family. Dallon, while he didn’t always appreciate it, got to watch his boy grow up.  
   
>>>>>>><<<<<<<  
   
Brendon leans against the counter, pen between his lips. He reads over the catalog for the fourth time, glasses slid halfway down his nose. He’s been alternating more between these and the contacts, he finds that Dallon likes them more than he’d realized. He sighs, shifting his weight to his other hip.  
“Um, excuse me?”  
Brendon looks up, eyes meeting a familiar pair of hazel ones.  
He tries to maintain his composure. Part of him wants to lunge over the counter and kiss his stupid face, the other, more dominant part, wants to hit him so hard his eyes pop out. He wants to say “How dare you?” but what comes out is:  
“What can I help you with?” His eyes wander over to Dallon, who is helping a middle schooler oil the valves for his trumpet. He wills his boyfriend to turn around and notice what’s going down, to take over from here.  
“Yeah, my cat got ahold of my acoustic and I need a couple new strings,” he says with a shrug. Brendon nods, maneuvering around the counter and making a beeline for Dallon. As the two pass, Brendon runs his fingers over the small of his back, catching his attention.  
He shows Ryan where the bags of strings are hanging and immediately turns on his heel and heads right back to Dallon.  
The boy with the trumpet is gone when Brendon rounds the last aisle, leaving only him and Dallon alone (with the brass supplies that is). Dallon is leaning against the shelving, hands loosely clasped between his thighs, legs kicked out in front of him.  
“Hey,” he says with an anxious smile. “What’s going on?”  
“Ryan,” Brendon says. He can feel the bile rising in his throat, his hands shaking. Dallon somehow has a sixth sense when it comes to Brendon. He didn’t always have it, he learned to read how Brendon moved and interacted with the world. He learned how to pick up on the subtle things Brendon did when he was anxious or lying. Like now, Dallon knows Brendon’s going to have an episode of some kind. He won’t hold eye contact for long, his hands are in loose fists, and he’s chewing on his lip like his life depended on it. And not in the sexy way.  
Brendon feels his heartbeat slow as soon as Dallon takes his face between his hands. He closes his eyes and listens to the way Dallon is humming into his hair. He sighs, holding onto Dallon’s wrists.  
“Better?” Dallon asks, lips ghosting over Brendon’s cheekbone.  
“Better.” He replies with a smile. “Dallon?”  
“Yeah?”  
“I’d choose you over and over again.”  
Something heavy drops in Dallon’s chest, his voice going with it. I’d choose you over and over again.  
“And I’m the luckiest man for that reason alone.”  
   
  
**2004**  
Dallon has cleaned the entire house. He’s done all the dishes. He vacuumed the whole house and swept the kitchen. Yes, even under the barstools.  
The shop has been doing abnormally well. The sales have been through the roof, enabling Dallon to buy a home that was listed for over a million dollars on the outskirts of Las Vegas. He was the actual freaking CEO of a company. They now had branches of DesertHazed in New York, LA, Miami, Chicago and Seattle.  
The home has five bedrooms, six bath and an enormous kitchen. The hallways are lined with gigantic windows, fluorescent lights attached to the tops. The patio in the back opens to a pool and a bar, stockpiled with the whiskey Brendon shouldn’t know he likes.  
Brendon’s twentieth birthday is coming up and the two decided that this was a good point to move in together. Brendon had left that afternoon to talk to his parents. They decided to go to lunch, Brendon said so that there would be witnesses. While it was meant to make Dallon laugh, it just made him more anxious about the whole ordeal.  
Three things are about to be discussed and Dallon can only imagine how Brendon would phrase it.  
“Mom, Dad, I’m bisexual. Also I’ve been seeing (and sleeping with) your best friend’s son who is ten years older than me since the boyfriend I had before broke up with me. And we’re going to be moving in together into his multi-million-dollar home in Vegas. Surprise!”  
No matter what Dallon does, he can’t relax. Brendon texted him that they were leaving at like two. It’s nearing four thirty. Dallon paces the length of the home, down the longest hallway in the home. He scratches his neck, swallowing the lump in his throat. He wrings his hands and glances out the window at every disturbance.  
As the sun sets, the more anxious Dallon gets. The sky is turning a burnt shade of orange and Brendon is nowhere in sight. No calls, no texts, and most of all, no news on how well the evening was going. So Dallon settles into the couch, puts on a DVD of The Love Boat. He folds his arms over his chest and slides even further into the leather couch.

 

Brendon’s father’s fork clatters to the plate.  
“You want to what?” he asks, swallowing the bite of whatever he was eating.  
“I want to move in with Dallon.” He answers confidently. He clamps his hands tightly between his thighs.  
“No,  thousand times over, no. I won’t allow it, Brendon and that is final.” His father’s face tightens, eyes squinty and brow beaded with angry sweat.  
“I thought you might say that.” Brendon says with a smile. “But you’re also forgetting that I didn’t ask if I could. I’m almost twenty and I have a well-paying job, I’m going to school part time now.”  
“Yes and these are very adult decisions and responsibilities. You’re only nineteen and have no idea of what all of this entails. You’re inexperienced with the world, you have no basis for this particular relationship, you’re most definitely not bisexual.” His father’s throat is tight, hands pressed into the tablecloth. “You have no idea how sex is gone about in this lifestyle-”  
“I definitely know how it works.”  
“Brendon, I think your father means with another boy-”  
“No, I knew what he meant.” He says, eyes crinkling with the smugness of catching his father off guard. “Firsthand experience is the best teacher.”  
His father makes a choking noise.  
“With whom?” His father is completely red in the face, horror and anger contorting his features. He’s never been this angry before, and Brendon knows - somewhere - that it’s because he loves him.  
“Ryan.” Both of his parents look puzzled, only then does he realize they have no idea who that is. “He was a boyfriend I was seeing in high school,” he explains, which only makes the crimson color darken in his father’s cheeks.  
“So you have been leading this double life with us, where you go to church twice a week, never swear or so much as ask to watch television on a school night, but here we are talking about how you’ve had sex with another boy-”  
“Not just one,” Brendon corrects, he can’t help himself, something terrible in him wants to drive this as hard as possible into his memory.   
“I’m done with this conversation. Apparently, we have had no effect on you as parents.” He stands from the table, tossing his napkin into his plate. “If you’re going, be gone tonight.”  
Brendon smiles to himself as he watches the blue polo duck out of the restaurant.  
“Brendon, you shouldn’t treat your father that way,” his mom says. “I’m not happy with your choices as of right now and you should be ashamed of some of the things you have done. However,” her face softens, reaching down to hold his hand. “Dallon does make you happy and out of everyone you could have chosen, I’m glad you chose him.”

 

The drive home is a blur. Brendon rushes up the stairs to his room and he’s definitely sure he’s never packed anything so fast in his life. He tossed clothes into one bag, important personal items in another. He throws open his closet, grabbing items of clothing and balled up socks. His eyes are watering, hands trembling as he packages his life in this room away. He shoves some books down into the suitcase carelessly, until something worn and blue and soft tucked away in the back corner of the middle shelf.  
Brendon chokes a little, cuddling the floppy stuffed animal to his chest. He hadn’t seen Blue in years and the simple touch of the dog is immediately comforting. He wipes his nose and gingerly lays the toy on top of his clothes. He zips up the case and his backpack, tossing his old soccer duffel bag over a shoulder. He stares at himself in the mirror opposite his bed.  
He remembers when he was scarcely tall enough to see over the top of his dresser to see himself. He remembers toddling around, yanking Blue behind him incessantly. He remembers getting a star chart for his eighth birthday with glow in the dark stars. He remembers delicately mapping out the section of night sky with said glowing stars. He remembers growing up, the layout never changing, not once, and here he is, leaving it. He knows that it’s not just the bedroom he’s leaving. It’s this stage of his life. He’ll never sleep in that bed again. He’ll never open the closet and dig through sports equipment for practice again. He’ll never sing too loudly in the shower that still had dings in it from bringing toy trucks in with him again. He won’t ever stare up at the ceiling with Ursa Major staring back at him.  
He wipes his face on the back of his sleeve, giving himself a shy smile.  
“To better things,” he whispers to the quietness of the darkened room.

 

  
Dallon wakes with a start, the doorbell jarring him so startlingly from sleep he nearly careens to the floor in his haste to answer it.  
“Where’s my key?” Brendon asks with a smile. His eyes are red, lips puffy.  Dallon assumes it’s from crying and he takes the boy in, taking the bags off his shoulder.  
“It didn’t go well, did it?” Dallon asks, shutting the door behind them with his foot. He follows Brendon down the hallway.  
“Nope,” Brendon says, his voice is light, but Dallon knows better.  
“Are you sure we’ve made the right decision-”  
Brendon spins on his heel, eyes determined.  
“Yes. This is what I want and who gives a shit about what they do, okay?” Dallon finds himself nodding and continuing to follow the boy to their room. Their footsteps are heavy on the wood-and-steel staircase, the only sound in the entire home.  
Brendon rolls his suitcase into the walk-in closet. He sits down in front of it, legs crossed underneath him. Unpacking feels permanent. Once he starts hanging his clothes up, he knows that this will be home. His clothes next to Dallon’s. It’s more than a drawer or a toothbrush, it’s half a closet, half of a home. Brendon knows this is the most he’s ever had.  
His shirts go up first: flannels, button-ups, jumpers for winter, suit jackets and his trusty denim one. His jeans and slacks hang next to them. He layers his nice ties under the bow ties and collects the rest of his things - socks and stuff like that.  
Dallon has already filled up the rest of the chest of drawers with Brendon’s clothing. Brendon pitches himself forward, throwing his arms around his torso. He buries his face in Dallon’s chest.  
“Thank you.”

 

  
Brendon wakes with his alarm at six o’clock. Classes start at Henderson (which is easier than saying International Academy of Design and Technology in Henderson) at seven, which is a major bummer. Brendon is a big fan of having easy mornings, but it’s Monday. He worked hard for this and Dallon - god bless him - is so encouraging and excited about Brendon’s degree choice that dropping out seemed absurd.  
Dallon felt him stirring and tightened his hold on Brendon’s waist.  
“Dallon, I have to get up,” Brendon nudged him with a groggy, not-completely-awake laugh. “Gotta go do my school.”  
“No,” he groans into Brendon’s neck. “Stay with me.” The thought of staying in their shared bed for the first time is definitely appealing, especially when Dallon starts kissing his neck. “Please?”  
“Dal,” he sighs contentedly. “Dallon, I really have to get up...I need a shower-” and Dallon sighed, releasing the younger boy.  
“Fine,” he huffs. “But we seriously need to discuss your class schedule.”

 

Brendon can’t figure out the shower. There isn’t a handle, just a knob in the middle of white granite tiles. He squints up at the overhead lights - several small, circular bulbs encased in glass blocks. He holds out a hand and jumps when a jet of cold water shocks him. He holds the fluffy white towel more tightly around himself, eyebrows set in determination. He pushes the glass door out as far as it’ll go and thrusts both hands under the tiny holes in the tiled ceiling he now knows is the shower head. Water sprays from the ceiling and he drops the towel. Small arrow buttons at about shoulder height control the temperature. He shuts the door behind him and stands - head bent to his chest - directly under the now hot water.

 

When Dallon isn’t paying attention to him, Brendon pulls the orange pill bottle from a pair of balled up socks in his nightstand. He takes one out, looks over both shoulders, and chases it down with water. Dallon didn’t know he was on Ritalin for school and what he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him. He pushes the drawer closed, but changes his mind, shoving the bottle into his bag.

 

Brendon now lives close enough to the school to skate there and back, even though Dallon offers to drive him. He hops skips off the nose and flips it up, tucking it under an arm. It’s the first day of the new semester, the campus is crawling with freshmen. He makes a beeline for the folding table by the entrance to the main building. Four guidance counselors armed with a small fleet of seniors dispense color-coded schedules to students. Brendon makes his way to the front and takes a yellow sheet from one of the senior girls, triple checking that it was his name at the top.  
Stepping away from the table, he skims the page of information to determine the order of classes. His first is music theory, then aural music theory, his piano four class, followed by sound reinforcement and production. He pulls a pen from his messenger bag and makes a star between aural music theory and piano, to remind him of the split in the day for lunch.

 

The classes slip by in an excited blur, each one more interesting than the last. Before he knows it, he’s punching the numbers into a vending machine for a bottle of water. Lunch wasn’t much, but he wasn’t hungry. He takes a protein bar from one of the bag’s pockets and heads back out to the courtyard.  
He sits at a table by the fountain with his wide circle of friends he was able to collect during his limited time on campus. Altsoba - “Seriously, please just call me Soba, I’m not a computer key.” - has beads in her hair.  
“I cannot tell you how many wraps I made this summer,” she catches Brendon’s look of mild confusion. “Shima-” Mom, that’s right she’s native american, “-made me get a job at Point Break, but since I’m not licensed to be a lifeguard, I had to man the snackbar. I made so many ‘tiki tango wraps’ I could’ve killed myself on all the receipts.” She rolls her eyes, taking a sip of an orange smoothie.  
“Phoebe and I got an internship at the radio station,” Fiona says. “It was so much fun. We actually got to put on the tracks and things…”  
Brendon actually stopped listening. What was he going to say when someone turned to him and said ‘Hey, what did you do this summer?’ because he was not about to tell them the truth. ‘Hmm, let me think, I moved in with my boyfriend and my parent’s are super pissed about it! I had a great summer!’. Luckily, his next class starts in ten minutes, so he excuses himself from the table and skates across the street to the engineering building.  
He stops under the arch leading to the stairs to pull out his phone. He scrolls through his contacts, stopping at Dallon’s name. He chews on his thumbnail. Ritalin makes anxiety worse and his chest feels tight, but he closes his phone. He puts it back in his bag and starts the climb to the fourth floor. There’s no point in calling Dallon, it’ll just make him worry.  
The truth is Brendon loves his classes, however, the relief he feels when the day is over is overwhelming. He tries his best to not jump out of his seat when the professor dismisses them. Soba asks him about his plans for the evening and if he wants to go to Hannah’s house for drinks.  
“No thanks,” he says with a smile.  
“What, you got someone waiting up for you?” She asks playfully, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She cocks her hip out expectantly.  
“Actually, I kind of do?” He says it more like a question and impatiently taps his fingers on the underside of the board.  
“Really?” She draws out the word, eyes popping. “Your mom want you home before eight or something? Come on, Brendon. It’ll be fun.”  
“How about we do it another time, I really have to get home though.”  
“Friday.” She’s not asking him, that’s for sure.  
“Maybe, look I really have to go-” before he can finish, Jackie, at least that’s what he thinks his name is, sweeps Soba away.  
“Friday!” She calls over her shoulder.

 

Brendon pushes open the door, leaving his the skateboard just inside the foyer.  
“How’d it go?” Dallon asks when he hears the door shut. Brendon shrugs, maneuvering his way to the kitchen. “What happened?” He asks.  
“Nothing,” Brendon hops on the barstool to watch Dallon cook udon. “My classes are pretty great, I think I’ll really like it this year.”  
“That’s great, Bren,” Dallon smiles brightly, tossing vegetables into the wok. He looks up from his cutting board, hands resting against the countertop. “You look tired.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but Brendon’s stomach twists sharply anyway. He’ll have to give Dallon an explanation. I’ll have to tell him about the medication, he’s going to ask me-  
“Do I?” He asks, pulling folders from his bag. He slaps the one labelled ‘Music Theory 2’ onto the bar. “How much do you know about this?”

 

  
Dallon watches Brendon do his homework. His legs are crossed, elbows out, hand scrawling answers to

hand scrawling answers to questions. He’s not bouncing, which is the first odd thing he notices. Brendon is still, and hasn’t eaten much of the udon (which doesn’t hurt his feelings, he doesn’t really care about that, he just wants him to stay healthy). The clock strikes seven when Brendon finishes up. He packs everything away and stretches, joints popping audibly.  
“All done?” Dallon asks, putting the tea kettle on the stove.  
“Yeah, thank god. Give me a second, I’m gonna go change.” He disappears down the hall, then reappears in a hoodie and shorts. On his way back to the kitchen, he puts on a Frank Sinatra vinyl. Brendon buries his face in his chest, wrapping his arms around his ribcage. Dallon sways along to the music, leaning down to echo the words back to Brendon.  
“Two in love can face the world together,” Brendon’s chest swells, breathing deeply.  
“Good thing I love you,” he says. He realizes that it’s the first time he’s said it out loud. Dallon doesn’t miss a beat, though.  
“I love you, too.”

 

  
Brendon stares blankly at the dark ceiling. Something is wrong, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Something is missing, but what? Dallon is here, he turned off the kettle, he did his homework. He sighs silently, craning his neck to see what time it is. The two glowing circles at the end of each hand tell him he’s awake and it’s not even midnight. He returns to the ceiling. He tries to count Dallon’s breaths, but he loses track.  
It’s too dark, he realizes. He’s always slept with some light or something. He missed it yesterday because maybe he was just too tired to notice? He swallows and continues counting the rise and fall of Dallon’s chest. The rhythm lulls Brendon almost to sleep. Brendon’s eyes fly open.  
Did I turn off the stove? There’s a momentary lapse where he nearly gets up to check it, when he remembers he didn’t even use the stove.  
Then he knows exactly what it is. It’s not the stove or the kettle or homework. It’s the stars. He hasn’t been without them since he was what, eight?  
Once he figures it out, he can’t get to sleep.

 

<<<<>>>>

  
Brendon hardly notices that it’s Friday, in fact, he doesn’t even remember until Soba is dragging him from the lecture hall to Hannah’s car.  
“Soba-”  
“No, no way you promised. It’s Friday.” She says. Brendon feels funny getting in the back seat of a purple Nissan.

 

Hannah’s apartment is just down the street from the campus, Brendon discovers. He takes the steps one at a time, trying not to think of Dallon worrying over where he is.  
He can’t sneak a text with Soba watching his every move, so all he can do is pray Dallon is busy.  
Hannah lives on the third floor with two other girls. They have each invited other people and the smell of pot is heavy in the air. Brendon eagerly takes a joint from a kid in a beanie.

  
“Is it laced?” Brendon asks, lighting it as soon as the kid shakes his head. Pot makes him feel good, less nervous, calmer. Phoebe, the girl from lunch, passes him a beer and the rest of the night glazes over. Brendon is caught in a blur of drugs and alcohol, which he hasn’t done since high school. He forgot how much he loved the partying, but he’d never tell Dallon that. He can’t see through the heavy fog in his brain and the hours pass quickly. The sun sets and Brendon knows he’s supposed to be somewhere, but he can’t remember where. He’s lost count of the drinks he’s downed or how many grams he’s smoked. He can’t bring himself to be worried.

  
“I have to go,” Brendon slurs into Altsoba’s hair. “I need-” he hiccups. “-to get home.”  
She giggles and flags Hannah down.  
Brendon flitters in and out of consciousness, one minute they’re on the stairs, the next they’re in the car. Altsoba asks for his address, but he can’t get it out. She takes his bag from him and rummages around until she finds his schedule. She hands it to Hannah.  
“S-Soba, why didn’t you drink,” he asks, poking the braid hanging by her temple.  
“I did,” she giggles, “Just not as much as you.” She takes Brendon’s phone from his bag and scrolls through his contacts. She hits the call button next to the name ‘Dallon’, whom she assumes is Brendon’s roommate (it’s the only name she’s unfamiliar with).

 

Dallon grabs his phone as fast as he can, as soon as it starts ringing.  
“Hello?” He asks, borderline frantic. “Brendon what’s wrong, where are you?”  
“Is this Dallon?” It’s a girl’s voice, and Dallon’s stomach drops.  
“Um, yeah, who is this?”  
“It’s Soba,” the girl says. “I’m Brendon’s friend, listen, we went to a party tonight and Brendon drank too much, he’s with me. We’re on your street-” Dallon hangs up.

 

Hannah stops at Brendon’s house and he stumbles out of the car before it’s stopped moving. Dallon is standing in his pajamas, arms folded over his chest. His hair is a mess.  
“Dallon!” He says, happily throwing his arms around his neck. Hannah waves and the two girls wish the two of them goodnight. Dallon can feel his blood pressure rise as the smell of alcohol gets stronger. He takes Brendon to their bedroom and tucks him into bed.

 

Brendon wakes up with a major headache, the sunlight making him want to throw up. Dallon runs a hand through his hair, quickly offering him a glass of water.  
“Hey, party animal how’s the hangover?” He asks, watching Brendon guzzle it down. “Not too fast, it’ll make it worse.”  
“Feels like hell,” he says finally, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.  
“Please promise me you’ll never do this again, okay?”  
“I promise.”

 

>>><<<

 

Brendon’s hands are sweaty and shaking. He can’t breathe. His chest tightens and he takes short, shallow breaths. His head spins, the stairway dipping as he tries to get to class. Soba’s friend, what was his name? J something. Not Joseph, not Jeremy...Jackie, maybe? Yeah, Jackie. He had pot with him at all times, right? Brendon immediately turns on his heel, searching for the boy in the striped beanie from that party.  
Promise me you’ll never do this again. He can hear Dallon’s voice in his head, but he ignores it. A joint won’t hurt him.

 

Tracking down Jackie’s van isn’t hard, it’s the orange one with beads. Typical. He gets a few grams for like ten bucks, and immediately rolls a few. Jackie even lights the first one for him. He pushes his promise to Dallon to the back of his head.  
“Hey, you know what’s better than that?” Paul, Jackie’s friend, asks.  
“Mm?” Brendon takes a shaky breath before looking up at the boy in the van.  
“These,” he holds out a jar, three metal wires sticking out of them. “It’s straight THC, just-” he takes one of the wires out and Brendon opens his mouth without thinking. He sucks the liquid off the wire, and Paul puts it back in the jar. Brendon feels light, the static in his head dissipating. He laughs.  
“You probably need another hit, dude. Here,” he takes another one of the wires from Jackie. He’s out for the rest of the day, he knows it.

 

“You know, pizza is like one-noodle spaghetti.” Paul says dazedly. The three boys are laying in the back of the van, staring up at the tapestry Jackie hung up when they got it.  
Brendon laughs.  
“How?”  
“You know,” Jackie giggles. “The- the bread is like the one noodle.”  
The afternoon slips by and Brendon knows he’s in good company because he’s fucking high and has been for hours. He somehow manages to stumble home when he hears Paul say it’s seven.

  
He rings the doorbell and slumps against the doorframe, waiting for Dallon to answer.

 

Dallon is furious, he yanks open the door and pulls Brendon inside. He takes Brendon’s chin and tips his head up to look at his eyes.  
“God damn it, Brendon,” He wants to shake him, to beg him to stop trashing his body, but he knows it’s not worth it when he’s not sober.  
“What?”  
“You promised you wouldn’t do this again.”  
“I know but Dal, seriously, why do you care?” Dallon’s jaw drops.  
“Why- you seriously- what the hell? Brendon, there are people who lace weed, who want to hurt other people. They’ll put dangerous things in it and you could die, Brendon. And that’s why I care because if anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself. That’s why. So maybe, next time, think about your big, dumb boyfriend waiting up for you who would have no _fucking_ clue what happened.” Dallon runs his hands through his hair.  
“Dallon-”  
“You’re too young, okay? You have to be careful-”  
“I am careful Dallon-”  
“How would you know? Did you ask them? Did you take it without thinking because you are such a _child_ sometimes-” and Dallon knows he shouldn’t have said that. He knows that Brendon hates being called that because of his dad. He knew better and yet, he said it anyway.  
Brendon makes a choking noise and pushes past Dallon to get to their room.  
“Bren, Brendon, I didn’t mean that-”  
“Leave me alone!” Something breaks and Brendon swears. Dallon rushes to their room, but the door slams in his face. He knocks.  
“Brendon, please, I’m sorry just let me in-”  
“Dallon please, leave me the fuck alone right now, okay?”  
“Brendon- I promise I’m sorry, I really, really am. Bren, baby I know you can hear me.”  
Somewhere, he knows it should be the other way around, Brendon apologizing to him. But here he is, stranded outside of their bedroom and begging the younger boy to let him in. He sighs with frustration and settles into the couch to sleep.

 

He rolls over sometime later, Brendon staring at him from the hallway. The blanket is wrapped around his shoulders.  
“I can’t sleep,” he whispers.  
“Neither can I,” Dallon answers.  
“I did ask,” he says with a sniffle. “I asked the first time. Not...not the second time.”  
“Brendon, you really don’t-”  
“I know it’s just because you love me.” He says sheepishly. Dallon opens his arms and Brendon immediately drops the comforter and tucks himself into Dallon’s chest.  
“I’m sorry.” Brendon repeats.  
“Me too,” Dallon kisses the top of his head. “I am too.”

 

 

 

  
**2005**  
DesertHazed is opening a branch in Singapore. The party for it is Friday night in the city’s Four Seasons Ballroom. Dallon hadn’t really given it a lot of thought, until he realized the building he bought six years ago is now going international. The building is right downtown and takes up three floors of a financial building in the shopping district. He texts Brendon during school, which he never does.

 

Brendon hears his phone beep during music tech and his stomach drops. Dallon doesn’t text him during class, he just doesn’t. So that left either his mom or dad, or even Soba who could’ve snuck him a text (even though she’s literally sitting right next to him). With one eye on the professor, Brendon fishes his phone from his bag.  
Got plane tickets for thursday, yes i know that’s tomorrow. dh has that thing friday, i’m not going without you  
Brendon’s jaw drops. Singapore would be the farthest he’d ever be from home. Ever. He’s never left the country before. What was he supposed to do about his classes? He could just ask the professors to give him a break, but who knows how well that’ll go. He eyes the professor warily before quickly tapping out a response.  
You should really capitalize your I’s.  
He smiles to himself, not paying any attention to what instrument was being discussed. His phone dings again.  
So youre in?  
Brendon smiles, biting his thumb before quickly typing out a response.  
Of course I am.  
This time his phone goes off, Soba elbows him.  
“What is so funny?” She hisses, looking directly at his cell only partially hidden by his bag.  
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” He whispers back, pointedly watching the professor. Once Soba wasn’t paying attention, he opens the new message.  
Your amazing  
He sighs out a laugh, earning a sideways glance from Soba.  
What about my amazing? Did it escape?  
Brendon tries to picture Dallon on the other end, the way he looks when he laughs, the crinkling of his eyes. Suddenly, Brendon is very homesick. He misses Dallon, which he finds ridiculous because they’ve been sharing everything. So really, he shouldn’t feel the twist between his lungs. It shouldn’t be there, which is irritating, because all it makes him want to do is go home and just see him. Maybe he could call-  
He scrambles to open the text, swallowing the lump in his throat.  
Typo and you know it. I’ll let you get back to your school. I love you  
Brendon almost started crying, which is also stupid and annoying but he smiles anyway.  
Thank God you used correct grammar. I love you too.  
He tucks his phone away slowly, surprised that the class was already over. He throws his bag over his shoulder and slowly makes his way down the auditorium steps to the professor’s desk.  
“Hi,” he says with a smile. “I just found out that I’ll be leaving town for the rest of the week, could I by any chance get the work I’ll be missing?”  
Professor Kline, that’s the name on his desk, anyway, purses his lips.  
“Brendon you realize you are a junior in the only university in the state offering your major, correct?”  
“Yes, sir, but-”  
“The rest of this week is a major blow to how well you’re going to perform on Monday.”  
“Monday?” He asks, furrowing his brows. He didn’t know anything about Monday, what was going to happen? Was it a big grade? How much is it going to hurt his grade?  
“Yes, it’s a performance day. It’s the final piano piece you will present to me. I, then, will give you a grade on what you present and it will be your final grade for the year.”  
“Professor-”  
“What are you doing? If it qualifies, I can give you an extension for Tuesday.” He says, sitting back in his chair. He folds his arms over his stomach and eyes him expectantly. Brendon clears his throat.  
“Well, sir, I’m going out of town for a music thing-”  
“Mr. Urie you better be a little more specific. Your graduation depends on it. If you fail, then I’ll have no choice but to send you back through Piano Three, then you’ll have no room to take Piano Four, which - by the way - is a requirement.” He’s smirking, which really pisses Brendon off. All he wants to do is reach over the desk and-  
“I’m going to Singapore with my boyfriend for a new branch of his business that’s opening. It’s doing really well and - at this opening - I’ll be meeting with producers such as  Paul Epworth, George Clinton, Pete Rock. People I’m sure you’re familiar with.” Brendon forces a smile, letting the man know he was done.  
Kline doesn’t say anything for a while, purses his lips again and sighs.  
“That is an impressive venture. However, I’m not sure I heard you correctly, did you say ‘boyfriend’?”  
Don’t say yes, tell him you misspoke just don’t tell the truth-  
“Yes, sir. I did.”  
The professor laughs, and leans forward on his elbows. His mouth twists smugly.  
“I’ll be looking forward to hearing your piece on Monday.”

 

Brendon slams the door when he gets home, something he doesn’t do. Dallon rushes down the hall, eyes wide.  
“Brendon?” But no one answers. The door to the back porch is open, and Brendon is fighting his way into a bottle of whiskey.  
Dallon hurries to the minibar, shutting the door behind him.  
“Brendon, baby, what’s wrong?” He knows better than to touch him when he’s in this mood.  
Brendon huffs, setting the bottle down with so much force it nearly breaks. Brendon grips the countertop so tightly his knuckles go white, head hanging between his shoulders.  
“Professor Kline won’t give me an extension for my presentation.” He mumbles, but he knows Dallon can hear. “I told him I was going with you, he won’t give it to me because I have a boyfriend.” He bites his lip so he won’t cry.  
“I can cancel it, I can move the opening to the summer,” Dallon offers. “What do you want me to do?”  
Brendon doesn’t answer right away, he knows he’ll snap and Dallon doesn’t deserve that. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm down.  
“I want us to get on a plane tomorrow and fly to Singapore.” He loosens his grip on the counter, smiling tiredly at Dallon. “I want us to have a good time and not think about this.” He swallows, running his thumb over the seal on the bottle. Brendon hasn’t drank anything since the party last year and won’t until April. Dallon reaches around Brendon’s shoulder to press the play button on the stereo. The CD in there was still the one Brendon made in private, the one Dallon hasn’t heard. Dallon takes Brendon’s wrists loosely, resting them around his neck. He rests his hands at the younger boy’s waist.  
He says along to the rhythm of the piano, the introduction to ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’; unknowing Brendon was the one playing it.  
“Elvis,” Dallon says. “It’s nice.”  
Brendon knows Dallon hasn’t heard him sing before, so the shock on his face when he recognizes the voice is alarming.  
“Bren, is that you?” He asks softly, going completely still.  
“I mean, yeah, it is. I had to do a project for class and they wanted me to do a song that meant a lot to me and this came to mind because, hey, you’re in my life and you mean a lot. So I picked the one that I love a lot and-” he keeps babbling until Dallon kisses him softly.  
“You didn’t tell me you could sing.”  
“I didn’t think I could.” Dallon kisses him again.  
“Well you can, and it is the prettiest thing I have ever heard.”

 

  
**SINGAPORE**  
Brendon holds his bottom lip between his teeth, headphones firmly on his ears. He’s going to pass the performance, no doubt about it. He calculated it, the flight is twenty three hours and fifteen minutes long. Dallon booked a flight that only stopped in San Francisco and that stop was over three hours ago. If he practices for at least ten hours, he’ll be able to only do two a night in the hotel.  
His fingers move quickly over the top of his laptop. He stuck stickers of the keys to it, so he could work on memory while they were traveling. He downloaded the song he’s working on - Debussy’s Reverie - and he’s had it on loop since the plane took off. Dallon fell asleep sometime around the third time Brendon had heard the song, but he wasn’t really paying attention.  
He takes a break after an hour, his fingers cramping. He takes a sip from the glass of water that’s been sweating in its cup holder for the better part of the hour. He’s in the aisle so it’s easier for him to get up without Dallon waking up. He walks to the bathroom and washes his face, stretches and sits back down. Dallon is still asleep, so Brendon resumes his study of the sheet music, starring where he keeps messing up.

 

Brendon doesn’t notice he’s fallen asleep until Dallon is shaking him awake.  
“What?” He asks, rubbing his eyes.  
“We’re landing, you definitely got those ten hours in.” Dallon smiles. Brendon tosses the headphones into his backpack, sliding the computer in behind them. “Try to have a good time, yeah?”  
Brendon nods.  
“Brendon, honey, look at me.” Brendon lifts his eyes from the bag between his shins. Dallon is looking at him but Brendon feels invisible. He can only think about the impending performance looming over him like a pendulum. His chest is tight, and that when he feels Dallon’s fingers ghosting over his jaw. His thumbs trace his bottom lip and Brendon sighs, eyes slipping closed.  
“Please try to have a good time, okay?” Brendon nods.  
“I promise.”

 

<<<<<<>>>>>>

 

“Hey Dal?” Brendon calls from the gigantic master bath. They somehow managed to reserve the penthouse for the weekend, Dallon said it was because sponsors wanted them to have the best for the time they were there.  
“Yeah?”  
“Can you help me with this?” Brendon holds both ends of the skinny tie, completely confused about how he was supposed to go about doing anything with it. He shuffles to the bedroom, where Dallon is tying his shoes. He straightens up and his mouth falls open.  
“Holy shit,” he says, making Brendon jerk his head up from the tie.  
“Not everyone is as good as tying ties as you-”  
“It’s not that, you look,” he shakes his head, unable to keep his hands to himself. "-wow." He runs his hands over Brendon’s chest before quickly tying it for him. Dallon catches his lips in a kiss, one hand at Brendon’s neck. Brendon holds desperately onto Dallon’s lapels, his heartbeat racing in his ears. He opens his mouth readily when Dallon runs his tongue over his lips. Dallon presses messy kisses down his neck, Brendon’s head falling back against the doorframe.  
“This will probably be the longest night of my life,” Brendon groans. “How long do we have to stay there?”

 

<<<<>>>>

  
Grace Urie doesn’t normally read the tabloids at the grocery store checkout, but the one at the end from the Wall Street Journal catches her eye. It’s colorful, the picture on the front full of people, but she recognizes the face of her son. He’s smiling brightly, leaning easily into the much taller companion that went unmentioned nowadays. ‘Young Entrepreneur Shocks The Market With New Branch Opening Overseas’ is across the top, she doesn’t bother reading the rest. She takes one off the stand and places it on the belt, just behind the bananas.

 

>>><<<

 

It’s Tuesday, the performance exam was yesterday and Brendon knows the score sheets are being passed back today. His performance couldn’t have gone better. He played everything correctly and it was flawless. He was surprised by the fact the chair of the department and the Piano 4 teacher had joined his professor for evaluating.  
Soba gets straight excellents, which qualified her for the next level. Brendon held his breath as the TA placed his score sheets on his section of desk with an apologetic smile. He flips it over, excitedly resding two superiors and-  
Brendon rereads the scoring. Two superiors and a poor?  
He does the math on his fingers, and bites his lip. He flips through the stack to find the score sheet with that on it. It’s Kline’s handwriting.  
The piece is played in two staves, you played it in three. Notes flat. Low energy level. Little finesse. You have little to no talent for the piano, level four isn’t for you.  
Brendon stands from the desk and collects his things, slamming the door as hard as possible on his way out. Kline may have forgotten that there is a ‘test out of this’ option that he sure as hell was going to take. He practically sprints to the office of the chair - Peterson, that’s right - and throws open the door. He places the score sheet on his desk.  
“Dr. Peterson I’d like you to have a look at this.”

 

 

 

  
**2008**  
Dallon sits by himself in the middle of the gym-turned-auditorium. The glossy floors are covered in a sticky tarp, the thousands of chairs for the students in rows across it. Brendon’s sitting somewhere in the back, dressed in a dark purple graduation gown. Dallon fiddles with the corners of the bulletin, a pamphlet really, of all the names of the kids graduating. He stars Brendon’s.  
He invited Brendon’s parents, his mother had said she’d try really hard to be here. But the two empty chairs to his left are a testament to them not making it. Just as he starts to mentally curse them - just his dad, really - he spots a woman in a blue dress trying to find her seat. Dallon waves to her and she smiles, taking the one next to him.  
“Hello,” she says. Her hair is curled and she’s wearing lipstick, which wasn’t something she usually did. Dallon sighed through his nose. The awkward tension was palpable and he was thankful that Brendon was too far away to feel it.

 

Once Brendon’s name was finally called, Dallon jolted awake. He’d dozed off somewhere around the M’s. Brendon’s mother looked relieved to the point of tears. Brendon flashed a dazzling smile as he accepted his diploma. He shook hands with a few important-looking people and returns to the seat he’d been occupying for the better part of four hours.

 

“I’m so proud of you!” Brendon hugs his mother, then presses a kiss to Dallon’s cheek.  
“Thanks, Mom,” he says with a smile before lacing their fingers together.  
Brendon looks around the gym as Dallon talks with his mother. Altsoba is with her parents, a tearful smile on her face. She’s leaving for New York tonight, she got a job with Apple. She’s working with their advertising team. Hannah looks distraught, face contorted as she tries not to cry. Her father throws an arm around her shoulder. A few kids from class and lunch he recognizes are all with their parents, and he never thought he’d be one of them today.  
This isn’t high school, he reminds himself. No one really cares who they go to college with. _And besides_ , he squeezes Dallon’s hand, _I have everything I need right here_.


End file.
